


A Recipe for Disaster

by windienine



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: AU, Culinary Disasters, Dubious Science, Gen, I had so much fun with this, Maxwell's Still Throned, POV Third Person Limited, SW Needs More Love, This Is Pre-Together, Two Fools Trapped On Many Hell Islands, stay tuned!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 16:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13663350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windienine/pseuds/windienine
Summary: It's been some time since Warly was dropped into the tropical-paradise-turned-horror-show that he is currently suffering through. He's died, he's triumphed, and most of all, he has learned. He's become proficient at surviving on his own, even with the occasional setback.Unfortunately, his latest brush with danger has left him re-awakened in the world once again with nothing to go on but a crock pot and his instincts. However, something is far different from before. Small changes in the workings of the islands have led him to believe that perhaps he is not alone, this time around.The real question lies in whether the strange newcomer is truly able to be trusted as an ally in the quest to get out of the Constant and back home.





	A Recipe for Disaster

**_“Everything can be reduced down to ingredients. Dishes, machines, and every part of the natural world around us. The true challenge is seeing those completed products in motion and being able to work backwards from there to find those ingredients and figure out how they mix.”_ **

 

   Seagulls were calling overhead, their shrill cries piercing the pleasant tropical air. The tide drew forward and receded like tired clockwork, and nearly splashed up against Warly’s sand-caked trousers. The sound of seawater washing upon the shore was calming, almost enough so to lull him back into long, dark slumber. Almost.

  His eyes fluttered open, and he immediately had to shield them from the sun. It was far too bright- no clouds or haze to block out the rays. His grandmother always warned him that he’d blind himself by doing that, one day. On the other hand, the sun was high overhead- it was already lunchtime, without a doubt.

  This was another rude awakening, to be certain. Yet, it wasn’t necessarily as rude as it _should_ have been, or so Warly thought. Every other time, there had been the parrot. A scarlet macaw- such a foul little creature. Its beady little pupils would dilate and it would flap its wings incessantly, shrieking out profanities and insults like an ill-behaved child. He had always wondered who had taught it such language. He had also always wondered if there were any foreign recipes that involved macaw in poultry stock with a side of exotic vegetables. Alas, he could never quite catch it.

  Where was the feathered imp? It was almost eerie, now, being alone with dilapidated ship rubble and waterlogged cargo without the bird screeching at him all the while. Though, he supposed it didn’t make a difference in the long run. After all, he had adapted to being alone in picturesque but deadly scenery some time ago. Was everything else the same? He supposed so- he checked his pouch (devastatingly empty, apart from his steel cookpot) and the cookpot itself (again, sadly empty). It was just more of the usual. And so, he started collecting driftwood and tearing apart the rubble of his surroundings to assemble a raft of his own. Until he collected the materials for a proper workbench, even something that rickety would have to do.

  One machete, a thankfully non-venomous snake bite that could be treated well enough with cloth bandages, and some neatly trimmed (or violently slashed, rather) jungle overgrowth later, he began putting together what would hopefully carry him to a more hospitable island than this barren little cay.

  After finishing that work, he looked out on the open water. The sun hung low in the sky, painting the ocean in hues of gold. Conditions further away would remain a mystery for now, but the surface of the shoreline water was placid, glassy and transparent so that he could see the rocks and seashells beneath the surface. Perhaps on his earlier travels, he would have hesitated and camped for the evening on the beach, but nowadays his practice had conquered his fears- if he followed the direction of the waves, he’d surely reach another island by dark. He just had to hope it wasn’t infested with monsters or wild creatures. It was simple enough. With only a bit of hesitation, he dragged his new bamboo raft out onto the edge of the water, wincing as his shoes filled with water. Never a fun sensation, that. Taking a makeshift paddle which he had cut from driftwood, he stepped onto the raft and promptly felt the entire craft shift under the weight of him and his belongings.

  He knew that this wasn’t the best idea, but he hoped it might work out anyway. Pushing off the edge of the shore, he started making his way out to sea. He assumed he was quite a better sailor than a driver, by now! Even with the uneasiness of the water, he found he had no trouble balancing himself. The feeling of seasickness felt far away, and the tide as relaxing as the streets of the city. In some ways, that worried him. He didn’t want to adjust. He didn’t want to let himself feel happy. That would mean, in some strange, illogical fashion, accepting the idea of never being able to go home.

-

  Time didn’t bother slowing for Warly, of course. A few hours later, the sun was sitting on the edge of the vast ocean, and he was beginning to get nervous. While there had been nothing dangerous- no sharks, no large tidal waves, and no tar slicks or sea mines casually scattered about, he wasn’t seeing any land.

  “I may make a lot of mistakes, but please, _please_ do not let this be one of them.” Warly muttered under his breath, along with a few softer prayers to whatever forces may have been listening. He scanned the horizon in a mild panic, until suddenly focusing on a shadow in the distance. He immediately started rowing towards it, thankful that the tides were having the same directional preferences as him for the time being. The closer he got, the more easily he could make it out- what had at first been a jutting shadow became the figure of a rocky shoreline, growing larger with each stroke. His risk had paid off! He kept moving closer, eagerly balancing over the quick waves and cracking a smile in his excitement.

  This island just might be habitable, or so he thought. As he rowed closer, he noticed schools of fish darting about under the water’s clear surface. Nearer to land, hundreds upon thousands of bivalves clung to the rocky shore. With the right tools, a virtually infinite supply of nourishment would be within reach. How long had it been, even in counting past attempts, since he had been able to set up a proper camp with all the amenities needed to support himself? Those times were the least harrowing- as much as he loved nature, he was no wild man, and remaking this place into some crude semblance of home helped to ease his constant worries.  

  Without a hitch, he landed on a patch of sand, dragging out the (slightly water-logged) raft and began eagerly getting ready to head to the middle of the beach and set up a temporary camp.

  That was better. By nightfall, Warly had been able to set up a roaring bonfire on his new little beach, surrounded by his crock pot and an array of simple tools tied together with nothing more than beach grass and weary prayers. At the very least, it was something. Now that he had scavenged some mollusks from the rocks above the nighttime tide, he had proceeded to roast kebabs of crab meat and clam. Now, he was full, energized, and just generally feeling far better about himself than he had been. Though, he was planning to do more than just sit on his laurels. Out on the edge of the beach, even in the falling darkness, he was able to get a fair look at what the rest of the island held: jungle, more shoreline surrounding it, and even…

  Wait, could that really be?

  Warly worried that the sea madness was getting to him early, this time around. Yet, there was no mistaking it—dark smoke was rising into the night sky from the opposite side of the island.

  He couldn’t recall ever seeing wildfires before hurricane season hit and lightning strikes began starting them all over the place. Could it really be? Was he in danger? Had the volcano already begun to erupt? He hadn’t felt any tremors! Before he could let his thoughts start running away, he took a deep breath. _Of course,_ he would have known if the volcano erupted. There would have been massive, black clouds of ash and soot overhead.

  Another possibility could be that one of those hulking brutes had found out how to harness fire. Nothing too dangerous there. Unless, of course, it got out of hand, and they torched the entire jungle, and it spread to base. His foot tapped again and again against the sand, and he had to hold back the urge to barrel towards the light, despite the looming threat of the night monster.

  … Then again, perhaps it was time to stop thinking altogether. Wide-eyed and still breathing quickly, Warly laid down flat on his bed of reeds and grass and decided to investigate at dawn.

-

  The moment the sun poked over the horizon, he was off like an engine towards the other end of the island. Nearly tripping over protruding roots, he scrambled his way through the woods, barely noticing the droves of spiders, the screeching monkeys, or the venomous snakes that were currently attempting to start a turf war with them both. That would come later. He could, on the other hand, see that some of these trees were burnt to nothing more than stumps of charcoal. Something had to have done this. A freak lightning strike? A lone Dragoon? There had to be some sort of explanation!

  Machete in hand, he cut his way through the undergrowth, and was actually impressed with his own progress. Before long, he could see an open clearing- a quiet meadow on a cliff-side over the ocean. This had to be it…

_There._

  At the edge, there was a grove of bushes and trees. Parts of the ground were blackened, rocks surrounding them. A few doubloons had been haphazardly scattered about. He could hear clicks and whirs, as well as the crackling of a flame. Warly silently drew his machete, creeping up to a bush with catlike tread. Minus the uncontrollable shaking.

  Once he was safely behind it, he peered through. What he now saw could only be described as… a camp?

  Strange, impossible machines were humming away in this little base, a stone chiminea at its center. Signs of life were all around, with the fire only recently having been doused. Something smelled like burnt vegetables. Disgusting.

  But, how? Warly was wracking his brain. There had never ever been even an inkling of another, living human in this entire island chain. Dead, for certain- skeletons, picked to the bone, dotted desert islands, and he had found abandoned boats rolling about in the waves, not to mention all of the knick-knacks that seemed to descend from the real world. There was another person? Were they friendly? Were they a crazed madman whose mind had been eaten by the wilderness and had been killing all of the other survivors? Oh, dear, Mon Dieu, whatever to do…

  He made a quick decision to leave the premises, when—

_Clunk._

  There was the sound of metal falling against the grass, no more than five feet away. Footsteps, hurried, maddened. _They_ must have heard him stirring in the bushes. Who were they? There was still time; there was a split moment to get away, but…

  He couldn’t turn to look. Every hair on the back of Warly’s neck was standing on end. Even though he was still gripping the machete, he realized that his entire body was completely frozen in fear. He’d had such luck, and now it was still destined to end here.

 _“How many times have I had to tell you dirty vermin…”_ came a tired rasp.

Another quiet step forward.

_“To stay well out of my way?”_

  When the axe came down, Warly blocked skillfully with his machete in one quick, panic-infused motion. The blade caught the hilt of the axe, and the very tip of the axe’s head came but a notch from Warly’s _own_ head.

  When he met eyes with the stranger, the both of them recoiled in a mix of horror and confusion, dropping their weapons and retreating in alarm to opposite ends of the cliff-side. Their breaths were both hurried and shallow.

  “I knew it! You’re a madman! A murderer!” Warly exclaimed, pointing shakily at the unkempt fellow opposite him. “You… you _terrible person_!”

  “Great Scott!” he replied in a mix of shock and relief. The stranger, to Warly’s surprise, lifted his hands into the air like a caught runaway, displaying no intent to harm. “I… oh, stars above, I’m so sorry! I mistook you for an animal! I hadn’t the faintest idea that Maxwell had lured another man to this terrible place!”

  “What?!”

  “What?”

  It was clear that regardless of how or why these two had come to meet one another here on this island, neither of them had homicide weighing heavily on their brains. For what felt like an entire millennium to Warly, they just sort of stayed where they were. He and this… other man. This other man who was capable of actual speech. How long had it _been?_ His heart was still very much racing.

  It was the other, shorter man who eventually broke the post-adrenaline silence, walking up to Warly. He was wearing a slightly torn red waistcoat, a dress shirt caked with seawater, and a pair of fraying black slacks- in other words, dressed like a professor who had drowned some months ago on his last day of vacation. That wild, uncouth hair of his wasn’t helping with impressions. Neither was the equally wild beard, for that matter.

  Not that he hadn’t looked even worse for wear in the past.

  “Er… greetings,” he began, extending a gloved hand to Warly. “I apologize again for earlier. I really do. My name is Wilson P. Higgsbury. Gentleman scientist. And you are?”  

  Warly raised an eyebrow, refusing the gesture. “Warly Dufour. Pleased to meet you, yes, but you needn’t be so formal. We are trapped on a desert island, after all.”

  Wilson frowned at this, folding his hands behind his back. “I suppose not,” he said. He tapped his foot, glancing aside. Was he seriously fumbling for small-talk ideas? “You’re a Frenchman, telling from your accent?”

  “Not quite.” Warly said, shaking his head. “But you are certainly from England.”

  “Well, it’s been quite some time, but you’re right on the mark.”

  The conversation trundled along awkwardly for an uncomfortably long stretch of time, both of the men dodging the larger questions about the world, their whereabouts, and their more recent origins. Somehow, the conversation devolved into tiny interrogations about everyday life, which turned into tangents about their mutual love (and longing desire) for coffee, the fact that they were both allergic to dogs, dissenting views on how much salt should be used in beef stroganoff (Wilson’s guess made Warly visibly shudder), and other things of relative unimportance. In spite of it all, this eased both of their soaring heart rates.

-

  It was some time before they finished with that. The scientist was prattling on about the island and explaining the biomes to Warly as if the latter was just born this morning. This annoyed Warly, but he did have to concede that this Wilson character did know quite a lot, dropping unknown tidbits such as the exact days when the large buffalo creatures were aggressive and the best placement for a lightning rod between gigantic chunks of obvious information. He was quickly painting a mental portrait of Wilson- intelligent, but dense as a rock. He held himself in high esteem. Warly also did not like being spoken over every time he tried to qualify something Wilson had to say, but disagreements wouldn’t further anything.

  “Less of a ‘hell island’, and more of an ‘island of mild discomfort’, wouldn’t you say?” said Wilson, with a semblance of a smirk. “So, once more, welcome to the Chateau du Higgsbury,” he added, making a weak gesture with a wrench to the entire camp. “Er, am I saying that correctly?”

  Warly just nodded slowly. He didn’t quite have the nerve to tell Wilson that he had marred the pronunciation badly. On the other hand, he had to agree that Wilson certainly had something mildly impressive going on, here. A workbench was vital, but working electric contraptions? As impressive as it was, he hated to wonder what might happen to them, come flood season. There was something… certainly one singular something that involved a wooden box, radio antenna, and a silk hat. It was teetering towards the edge of blasphemy, really.

  “Are these machines all… how do you say… ‘lab-safe’?” asked Warly.

  “Naturally!” said Wilson, beaming with pride. “I’ve only been electrocuted twice since I’ve set up camp, here. It’s a new record, I think. More importantly, I wanted to make sure to keep asking you more important questions about your experiences and former whereabouts, my good subj—… friend. My friend. Moreover, feel free to spend the night here. Feel free to spend _every_ night here! Oh, I cannot believe that I finally have another well-educated man to theorize with… to actually think with! I’ve been talking to rabbits and machines and vaguely person-shaped piles of sand for as long as I can remember…”

  Warly was getting the notion that perhaps this Wilson was something of a lonesome fellow. An odd bird, for certain. But still, he seemed terribly, terribly lonesome, and not just in the way that he had been stranded in the middle of the ocean with no human company for untold months. That was relatable.

  “Cripes, I nearly forgot to ask. Are you hungry?”

  “O-oh. Well, I suppose I haven’t really eaten since last night.” Warly admitted.

  “I can fix both of us something!” Wilson said, immediately moving to uncover that odorous, stone-age disaster of a cooking pot he had at the ready. How… unfortunate.

  At this point, Warly felt like it was only just and right to intervene. “No, no. That’s quite all right, please allow me to take it from here.”

  Wilson was about to object, when Warly placed down his own stainless-steel crock pot, which he had been carrying around this entire time. Quickly assembling the legs, he found himself at least a little more confident now that he was dipping back into his element. Wilson was flabbergasted.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a filtration system and fresh water, would you?”

  “Where did you get _that?_ ”

  “The pot? It would be silly of me to leave home without it. Now, once again- do you have any water?”

  “I, well… yes, actually.” Wilson said, still trying not to go slack-jawed at the sight of metal kitchenware. He reached for a series of large glass containers that looked as if they contained a hodge-podge of sand, rocks, and charcoal. At their bottoms were varying amounts of water that he could only pray was potable.

  “I noticed your icebox, Wilson. How is your larder looking?”

  “I have a bunch of wild plants that I know are edible, some I’ve never seen before that I have for when we reach dire straits, a few stray sweet potatoes, limes, wild carrots, and three fish.”

  “I think I know what would be a good idea. But first of all, what kind of fish?”

  “I’m not necessarily an ichthyologist, Mr. Dufour.”

  Warly sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are they whitefish? Oily?”

  “I believe all fish have oil in them to some degree. They’re all the same kind, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Warly muttered something under his breath. “Je vais mourir ici et cet homme sera ce qui me tue.”

  “What was that? You’ll have to forgive me, my knowledge of French is nothing if not terribly rusty.”

-

  “You seem… handy with your weapons, non? Won’t you try your hand at filleting properly?” Warly said, with a conviction that made the request sound more like a command. The water had already been brought to a pleasing boil, and the fire underneath it was crackling pleasantly.

  “I’ll do what I can! I’m not sure what I can promise in good faith.”

  “I showed you with the first one- use the spine to guide your knife. All in one motion, now- if you make it jagged, we could be wasting meat.”

  “All right, all right, you don’t have to tell me twice! Forgive me, I don’t exactly have experience with this sort of thing.”

  “Were you seriously eating them right off the bone this entire time, like an animal?”

  “… Er, no, of course not.”

  “Tu me dégoutes.” Warly replied in a more blasé manner than one might expect. He was used to this. He hadn’t true pride—Wilson’s act would come undone. He had been needing a Warly for quite some time.

-

  The two had created a rhythm for themselves, Warly taking over and asking Wilson to fetch items from the icebox.

  “Carrot?”

  “Carrot.”

  “Onion?”

  “Onion.

  “Cilantro?”

  “I’m pretty sure this is a sprig of coriander, yes.”

  Warly sniffed at it for a moment, before setting it on the same side of the driftwood cutting board as the others. “This will do.”

  “Sweet potato.

  “One yam, last in stock!”

  “Wilson Higgsbury, if I ever hear you call a sweet potato and a yam the same thing ever again, you are to be the next item on my working menu.”

  “… Duly noted.” From his expression, he probably didn’t get full-named by anybody by himself.

-

  “And that, my friend, is how you make proper ceviche out of wild ingredients only. With a personal flair, of course. You don’t see many people making use of bay leaves in a recipe like this, do you?”

Wilson had already started digging into his portion before Warly could properly finish.

  “Thich ish amazing!” he said, between bites of too-hot ceviche. “It diffn’t take verwy lon to cookf, buw the fisch if weally firwm! Ah’m gueffing the prwoteans inf the fisch are denafurwed buh the wime?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Wilson… you said you were a _gentleman_.”

  He finally swallowed, his face tinged with embarrassment. “Ah. Yes. Sorry, I seem to have gone without eating for longer than I’d imagined. In fact, this really is the closest I’ve had to a proper meal in ages!”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I have to say, though,” Wilson added, piquing Warly’s attention before he could begin eating his own portion. “You’re an incredible cook. Tell me, when did a man of science like yourself have the time to pick up such an extraneous skill? Or, are you maybe some sort of agricultural researcher? Regardless, this is amazing! My compliments to the chef.”

  He thought _what?_ Wilson had just assumed that he was a scientist as well? Did the man have bats in his belfry?

  “I… I _am_ a chef, Wilson. Culinarian, really—it’s my life’s passion.”

  “You’re a _what?_ ” Wilson asked, nearly choking on his food. He looked as if someone had just kicked him in the gut.

  “It seems as if you may have jumped to a conclusion. Let’s take tonight to clear up some things, shall we?” 

-

  With evening came some more proper conversation. Warly had taken apart and brought over his set-up luxuries from the other end of the island with Wilson’s help, and Wilson had begun to instruct him on how some of these machines worked. During a small break, they started talking again.

  “So, you’re a chef.” Wilson repeated, a little unenthused. It seemed as if he had been excited to get a partner, but only so long as they shared his goals and interests. “I suppose I was hasty in assuming only other scientists were brought here. It certainly explains why you’re so good at what you do.”

  Warly was observing the thermal measurer he had set up. “You’re not half-bad a scientist, if you’re capable of this with sticks and stones. I underestimated you.”

 “W-well, it’s more of a work in progress.” Wilson said, surprising Warly. Where was that pride? “I want to add a barometer, too. In the meantime, I wanted to ask… why do you prepare dishes like that? It’s tasty and probably quite healthy, but doesn’t it take up far too much of your time?”

  “Good question,” Warly replied, smiling a little. “You are right about the health benefits, for one. To you, I must ask why eating these ingredients raw doesn’t make you terribly sick to your stomach. Raw foods… the same dish, day after day… no variety…” he mused, shaking his head in disgust. “It assails the senses. I could never think of handling things in any other way, whether or not I’m stranded on a desert island. I can’t be reduced to a caveman, can I?”

  Wilson seemed puzzled, but accepted it after some thought. “I can sort of relate. I have my own str—… different sort of habits, yes.”

   He was about to introduce the next machine, when Warly stopped him.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about that one.” Warly said, motioning to the so-called “science machine”. “I’ve known about that for a long time.”

  Wilson looked surprised, but then a grin spread wide across his face. “You found my blueprints?!”

  Warly remembered how he had found the mysterious directions in a bottle, washed up on some tiny island some eons ago. How he remembered that particular blueprint for all this time, all of these wake-ups… it was beyond him, really. He gave Wilson a nod.

  “Those were yours, Wilson?”

  “They sure were!” he replied enthusiastically. “I left them everywhere. Some time ago, I thought it’d be wise, on the off-chance that someone else were ever to come here. They might find them on the wind, or in the water, or stuck to a tree…”

  “There’s more to you than I may have thought. I’ve never seen a design for a workbench quite like that, but the tools you’ve come up with are nothing if not efficient. Tell me, who taught you how to do this?”

  “Er…”

-

  A bit later, Wilson was off to the side, shaving his beard (finally) while Warly organized the storage they had for themselves meticulously.

  “Mr. Dufour, do you need the razor? You’re looking a bit scruffy, too. I can make you another.”

  “No, thank you.” Warly said, audibly perturbed. Was he really about to compare that matted mess of a beard to his own? Wilson would _not_ want to take that route. But, then again… “But do you have a comb?”

  “… No.”

_Mon Dieu._

  “… But, I can make you one!” Wilson added quickly, noticing the look he was being given. “It’ll take but a moment.

  Turning, Warly noticed that he looked particularly non-threatening without that face full of hair. In fact, he looked quite a bit younger than Warly had pegged him to be. Wilson couldn’t be a day over thirty. Was Warly really older than him?

-

  Night had fallen once more over the constant. Wilson, making himself useful, had helped to get together a proper bed roll for Warly. He did have to admit that it was far comfier than the ones he had made—and a sandbag made for a half-decent pillow, even.

  Warly looked up at the sky. It had been so long since he had the time to appreciate the strange, tropical wilderness. It was always so hectic that he had often collapsed asleep as soon as the sun set. Avoiding exhaustion and sleepless nights was key.

  “I never realized just how many stars you can see from here,” said Warly. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Wilson shrugged in reply, frowning. “The splendor may have worn off on me,” he said. “None of it is real. This is all just some artificial sky, when you think about it- a gigantic stage where we’re being fed us our lines and actions. Besides, I don’t want to find beauty in anything _he_ made.” There was something of a bite in how he addressed the unspoken name.

  Warly leaned back against his straw roll, glancing back up at the sky. Wilson was right, in some respects. He couldn’t pinpoint any familiar constellations among the countless stars. Yet, there was something else, too. Deep down, something in him wanted to map out new ones.

  “Maxwell, correct?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Maxwell. I think you said that was the name of the person who trapped us here.”

  “Yes, that’s right. You didn’t know that?”

  Warly shook his head. “Not until now, no. Did he tell you his name when he contacted you?”

  “Not quite,” said Wilson. “Back when I only knew him through that blasted radio, he was just some anonymous man of mystery.”

  “Radio?”

  “Uh… yes.” Wilson said, pondering for a moment. “Say, does the name ‘Voxola’ strike you as at all familiar?”

  Warly mulled it over for a moment. “I can’t say with confidence that it does. It sounds like some sort of medicine brand.”

  “It’s not,” Wilson replied flatly. “But… In that case, how did you even end up here in the first place?”

  “Well, that’s quite a long story,” said Warly. “I wouldn’t want to keep you awake all night. The long and short of it is that I was contacted by post and manipulated into boarding a ship which I can only assume that he knew was going to sink.”

  Wilson averted his eyes, somewhat embarrassed upon remembering his own predicament and how easily he had been tricked. “That’s different and yet similar to my story. I suppose you’re a castaway of the more literal variety. A regular Crusoe!” Wilson said, passionately swinging his arm. Warly wasn’t so impressed.

  “Heh-heh… we should take an evening to discuss it all, sometime,” Wilson continued. “Well… perhaps. That is, if you were comfortable. Anyway, the point is that I think I’ve figured out what’s dividing us and why we seem to have information that the other lacks.

  “What do you have brewing in your head, mon amie?”

  “I think we’re from two very different sides of this place. You’ve never been to the Constant, have you?”

  “The what?”

  “The Constant. It’s a lot like this… ‘Archipelago’ place, as I’ve coined it, but not tropical or ocean-y,” Wilson explained. “Have you ever been to New England?”

  “No, but I think I get the picture.”

  “Yes. It’s like a bizarre, alternate-world version of that, filled to the brim with just as many horrors and hazards as this place.”

  “So, Old England, really.”

  Both of them stared blankly at one another, before having to stifle a laugh. Wilson was attempting and failing to continue multiple times as they both kept on giggling to themselves like children. Humor was hard to come by out here, and Warly supposed that any piece of it was to be treasured.

“Ha—haha… a-hem.” Wilson cleared his throat, attempting to resume a serious tone. “Yes. So, there is an entirely different end of this place that is mostly forest and filled with more terrors of the terrestrial kind. I always sort of considered it the original.”

  He paused. “But now, I’m not so sure. I mean, until today, I thought that I was the only one who was brought here. You’re living proof that that’s not true. I ended up coming from the Constant to here after building what was apparently a _second_ faulty device in order to try and return home,” he said, before noticing that Warly seemed to be stewing about something. “Pardon, are you all right?”

  “Yes,” said Warly, after some hesitation. He balled his fists. “I can finally put a name to that… that _fiend!_ That terribly dishonest _villain!_ ” Warly was almost surprised at himself for using even those descriptors. He had come so close to swearing!

  “… Is that really the best you can come up with?”

  “We’re going to work together and find him, and then find our way home!” Warly exclaimed, before righting himself. “Er, I mean… we’ll do our best, non?”

  Wilson had gone starry-eyed. “You _do_ want to work with me!”

  Warly sighed, but this time it was with a smile. “We’re literally stuck together, friend. I need to start learning to get along well with somebody as… _colorful_ as you early on.”

  “Goodness! Well, I won’t disappoint y—” he began, pausing. “Was that… an insult?”

  Warly had already turned over on his bed roll. Wilson was… exasperating, but Warly had a knack for telling when somebody was truly a shady character. Wilson wasn’t setting off any alarms. However, he still had many troubles. Such as Maxwell’s deceit. Oh, when he got to him, he’d be sure to give him… quite the stern talking-to. He could have killed them!

  Oh, well. No need to get too worked up before bed, he thought to himself. It was high time to get some rest.

-


End file.
